I’ll never forget the drive up to Conway – we’d set off from Manchester full of beans, playlist blasting, but about halfway there, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that was basically a sheep’s personal runway. We ended up reversing for what felt like miles with a farmer giving us the side-eye, but hey, it added a bit of unplanned excitement to the trip. By the time we pulled into the off-road parking spot outside this gorgeous little one-bedroom cottage just beyond the town walls, I was buzzing with anticipation. What a stunner it was on first glance – all cosied up in that medieval postcard setting, with modern touches that screamed “relax here, you’ve earned it”. Perfect for me, my partner, and our well-behaved mutt, Rufus.

We’d booked it for a long weekend of proper Welsh walking adventures, the kind where you lace up your boots and let Conway’s hills do the talking. First morning, the weather gods smiled: blue skies, crisp air, and we were off on the Great Orme Tramway path, a gentle uphill stroll from town that winds up to those epic clifftop views. Rufus was in heaven, nose to the ground, while we puffed along marvelling at the sea sparkling below and Conway Castle looming like something out of a history book. We picnicked up top – cheese rolls from the local bakery – feeling like proper explorers. That open-plan kitchen had made prep a doddle, with its fancy double oven and chiller keeping everything spot-on.

But oh, British weather, you fickle friend. Come afternoon, the clouds rolled in like they owned the place, turning our planned circuit of the Orme into a hasty retreat. Sodden and giggling, we dashed back to the cottage, where the sitting area became our cosy haven – Rufus sprawled by the heater, us brewing endless teas. Next day, it bucketed down proper, so we pivoted to a shorter jaunt along the Conway River Morfa trail, hoods up, dodging puddles the size of lakes. It was grim at first – wind whipping off the estuary, turning cheeks rosy – but there’s something magical about those moody coastal walks, isn’t there? We spotted seals bobbing about and herons standing stoically in the rain, which lifted our spirits no end.

Day three brought a cheeky mix: sunny spells for the heady climb up to Deganwy Hill, those panoramic sweeps over the castle and bay making every step worthwhile. But midway, the heavens opened again, forcing an impromptu shelter under a tree while Rufus looked at us like we were daft. Laughing about it later over a slow-cooked stew (that washer-dryer had our muddy gear sorted in no time), I had one of those quiet moments. You know, realising how these weather-whipped walks strip things back – no grand plans, just you, the elements, and a good dog. It’s humbling, makes you appreciate the simple joy of drying off in a cracking spot like this.

We left Conway with sore legs, fuller hearts, and a promise to return. If you’re after walks that adapt to whatever the sky throws at you, this neck of the woods – and a bolthole like our cottage – is pure gold.